


MI6-Hundred Thousand Scoville Heat Units, Or, The Heat It Takes to Make an M

by FeelingFredly



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, Acceptance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M is a survivor, Not Beta Read, Post-Skyfall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeelingFredly/pseuds/FeelingFredly
Summary: MI6 is full of survivors.  The new M, Gareth Mallory, should fit right in.





	MI6-Hundred Thousand Scoville Heat Units, Or, The Heat It Takes to Make an M

**Author's Note:**

> This little fic touches on surviving torture and PTSD survival. If you're struggling with that sort of thing, be kind to yourself and find another ficlet to cuddle up with. It isn't graphic at all, but I wanted to put out the warning. Thanks!
> 
> Still finding my way through the 007-verse. Hope you enjoy the little journey. :)

“Miss Moneypenny,” M said, voice quiet but firm as he flipped through the stack of documents in his hand. “I’m afraid something has come up and I won’t be able to meet with the department heads for the breakfast meeting tomorrow. I believe I have an opening Thursday afternoon, if you’d be kind enough to see to it.”

Nimble fingers were already checking the computer and sending out his apologies. Not that he needed to apologize, but it was the done thing. “Yes, sir. The department heads have been notified, and if any of them have conflicts…” He raised an eyebrow and Moneypenny ground to a halt. “Yes, sir. I will make sure they know that this takes priority. Is there anything else?”

M finished flipping through the papers in his hand, pulled a pen out and scribbled his initial on a few lines and passed them across the mahogany surface. “No thank you, Moneypenny. That will be all for now.”

He sighed as he passed back into his office and closed the door. Another bullet dodged.

***

_Where was the chili oil?_

“You do understand, M, that these agents of yours don’t actually have a license to run roughshod over the law. They have to answer to someone.”

 _And that someone will never be you._ As M, his was the last word when it came to his agents and he wasn’t about to pass them over to some bean counter who had never sacrificed a day in his life for Queen and country.

He raised a finger to get the attention of their server. “Chili oil, please.”

The server gave a tiny bow and turned with an, “Of course, sir.” before disappearing into the back of the restaurant. Across the white linen tablecloth, the MP he was ignoring began to notice that he was being ignored.

“I say, surely you realize…”

M cut him off with a raised finger. “Surely _you_ realize that what my agents do, or do not do, is my purview, and ultimately, mine alone. The legality of their actions is defined much more stringently than the actions of MPs, such as yourself, or even the PM herself. If you have a problem with something that one of my people has done, you are by all means welcome to lodge a complaint through the proper channels. Oh good, here it is—” He looked up at the server carrying the small container of chili oil with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

The server dissolved in the way that excellent servants did—only visible when needed, and never when not—and he began to douse the white fish he’d been served liberally, until the man across the table raised both eyebrows in astonishment.

“You’re not going to eat that?” The MP cleared his throat and lowered his voice, apparently a little embarrassed to have been so caught off guard as to blurt something out so rudely. 

“You’d be surprised,” was all M replied, finally raising his fork to his mouth and tucking into his luncheon with satisfaction.

***

“Santa Baby, slip the sable under the tree, for me…” 004 serenaded the office party with his best torch singer’s voice, wiggling a feather boa at anyone who got close enough for him to tease, “I’ve been an awful good girl, Santa Baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight.”

“Been just awful, you mean,” another voice piped up from the back of the room, clear as a bell. “How many explosions on your tally, so far? If I remember correctly, two more and you’ll pass 006.” Q’s face was pink from a little too much holiday cheer, but he still had Q-Branch under control. Thankfully. His minions got stroppy quickly if things went wrong, but Q always seemed to know how to calm them.

_Like Hagrid and his pets. Now wasn’t that a picture?_

M pushed his way further into the room and paused where everyone could see him. Startling a group studded with 00 agents was never a good idea.

“Happy Christmas to you all!” He smiled as broadly as was acceptable for a member of upper management and raised his laden arms. “Father Christmas was busy, so I told him I’d drop this lot off.”

Several of the Q-Branch staffers skittered forward and helped him set down the gifts he’d brought, his smile a little less forced as he watched them happily digging through of the packages. He didn’t go in for the departmental Secret Santa gift exchanges—he always thought it ironic that spies loved spying on each other under the auspices of figuring out the perfect gift—but he was no Scrooge, and he appreciated his people. They sacrificed more than most would ever be aware of, and even though they chose the life, that didn’t make their sacrifices any less important.

“Just the man we were hoping to see,” came a voice from the corner. 007 was lounging against the corner of a desk, looking for all the world like Q Branch had been tailored to fit him like one of his damned suits. He waved a tumbler of what was probably very good scotch at Q, and the younger man nodded.

“Masters,” he said to one of the many minions, “would you pop into my office and grab the basket on the corner of my desk? It should have a tag on it.”

A young blond fellow hopped up, disappearing into Q’s office for a moment and returning with an enormous basket with a red bow and an index card with a large green M on it.

“This is for you, I guess, sir,” he said, handing M the basket with a nod and a smile before plopping back at his desk and resuming his conversation. 

M looked down into the basket expecting his typical bottle of rum, if they’d realized that was his preference, or whiskey if they were still shopping for the old M. Not that he minded. Some nights, whatever was available was fine.

That wasn’t the case, though. Instead of alcohol—or, actually in addition to alcohol, because there was indeed a pair of bottles of Pusser’s in the bottom—but on top, there was… well, there was so much he didn't know quite what to think of it all.

He recognized hot British mustard, and a jar of Calabrian pepper sauce. There was Szechuan chili oil, and hot pickled giardiniera. There was even a bright red bottle of something called Dave’s Insanity Sauce. 

He picked the last up out of the basket and looked at the little tag on it. _From: Felix Leiter—with the CIA’s apologies to your stomach._

All the bottles had tags. Most were from 00’s. One, with a handwritten label, was from Moneypenny. There was even a box of spicy chili laced chocolates with a tag that said, “Life isn’t worth living without chocolate –Happy Christmas from Q Branch.”

He looked up and noticed that the three best, or worst, of his charges had crossed the space to stand before him.

Bond swallowed a mouthful of scotch and nodded to the chaotic pile of condiments. “Alec tried to sneak in a salt-shaker full of gunpowder—he tried it one very memorable weekend in Siberia—but we convinced him that we didn’t actually want to poison you.”

M looked suitably appalled. It wasn't hard. “I appreciate that. Truly.”

Moneypenny gave him a sly smile. “One of those is my grandmother’s spicy pickapeppa sauce, but I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Q use it as a degreaser in the lab, so be warned.”

Q shuddered. “That stuff should be weaponized. Wait. I could….”

“Q!” Moneypenny punched him lightly in the shoulder and they shared a grin.

M stared at the little group, and then realized the other 00’s were watching them from their spots around the room.

Bond raised a shoulder. “We hope you don’t mind, but it was important to us,” he nodded, “to all of us, that we do this first Christmas right. We know we aren’t the most welcoming bunch.”

Q snorted into his drink, and 007 threw him a dry look. “Most of us had a love/hate relationship with your predecessor, and unfortunately you got the brunt of it after Skyfall.”

M shifted the basket in his hands, trying to think of what to say. He couldn’t think of anything.

Moneypenny took pity on him. “After a month and a half of rescheduling breakfast meetings, it became pretty obvious that they were never going to work for some reason.”

Q nodded. “I, for one, am very grateful for that fact—who wants to deal with bureaucracy before they’ve even had their tea—but, still. Knowing that it _was_ a thing, didn’t explain what it was, or why.”

007 met his eye and they shared a look of understanding. “It wasn’t hard for the agents to figure out. You aren’t one of us now, but you were once—or at least close enough for government work.” They all laughed at that, and Bond went on. “All the 00’s have things we avoid. I swear Alec would shoot someone if they tried to feed him borscht.” He looked grim. “Six weeks of eating nothing but rotten beets, and those rarely…” he didn’t say anymore. He didn’t need to.

Mallory had spent three brutal months in the hands of the IRA, and they’d left their mark. Or marks. He’d found that the scars could be explained away, but the horror he felt at the scent of gluey oats, or the panic he felt at the smell of over-boiled cabbage and spoiled potatoes. He’d been starved enough to eat anything, and then sick as a dog when he did, and now if he couldn't pour enough spice on his food... Well, it changed a man.

He looked around the room and realized he felt closer to the 00’s than he ever had. That sort of thing changed all of them.

Q raised his glass, “As Quartermaster it is my duty to provide what my agents need to get their jobs done, and I decided that _this_ year our Christmas mission was to make sure that, you, as our new M—who is now stuck with us, for better or for worse—never run out of what it takes for _you_ to do the job. Whatever it happened to be. Even if it is,” he picked up a cut glass jar full of candy and tilted it so he could read the label, “habanero flavored jellybeans.”

M nodded once, firmly, and shifted the weight of his present a little awkwardly, as yet unable to find his tongue. Luckily, Moneypenny had no such problem.

“Now,” she reached in with a smile and grabbed the Pusser’s before turning back towards the rest of the partygoers. “Who’s going to let me show them how to make a proper Painkiller? Anyone?”

Q smiled as well and raised his glass in a little toast before sidling away, just leaving M and Bond.

“Happy Christmas,” Bond paused. “M.”

The older man recognized the compliment in the use of his title, and finally found his voice.

“Happy Christmas yourself, 007. And thank you.”


End file.
